Their Problems' Resolution
by Believe4Ever
Summary: A short drabble of the duo's lives before they met each other, each in their own perspective. Please read and review to let me know what you think.


**This is just something I typed up. I didn't really think about it while I was typing. Please read, enjoy, and review to let me know if you enjoyed it or not.**

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It was always lonely. He had always known that it was lonely, but he had tried to push those thoughts back deep in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could never delete those thoughts from his hard drive. Those thoughts were taking up space. He couldn't afford to lose any room in his brain over such idle thoughts as loneliness.

But they still overtook his day.

Each day he'd sit, when he was bored out of his mind, and talk to his skull. His skull. He probably seemed like a madman to the landlady every time that he spoke to it, and stared at it like it was a long lost friend that he had yet to recall the name of. Sometimes he'd just mumble to himself over and over again as if there was somebody next to him.

Sometimes he'd imagine that there was someone next to him.

It was as if a ghost of a man would still sit next to him. He would always imagine him so clearly. The man would be tall, but not as tall as himself. He would always wear an absurd pale green tween jacket with an equally disgusting deerstalker hat over his slick black hair. The man would only smile when he himself had said something clever, or pointed out something no normal person would ever hope to understand. But the ghost of a man didn't do much for his loneliness. If anything, it only proved the fact that he was going mad.

"I must find someone to entertain me," he muttered to the skull. The ghostly man was standing next to it, giving a solemn face back to the detective.

OoOoOoO

Nightmares constantly haunted him. Almost every night he'd wake with a jerk, the sounds of his comrades screaming his name still echoing in his ears. For that brief moment before he realized where he was, he'd think that Death had finally caught him and sent him into a dark abyss. Then he'd remember that he was simply in his flat, in his bed, and had just woken from yet another night terror. Then he'd fall back onto his pillow and try to keep away the tears.

Tears were weakness, after all.

His therapist had said that it was all right to cry, to let any emotion out, but he should do it during sessions. Why in the world would he do that? Why would he pay this woman so much money per hour just to sit there and watch him as he cried and showed off just how weak he had become, only to have her spurt out useless advice that never helped him. She always gave the same reason as for his nightmares.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

That was why his hand trembled, she said. That was why he woke up every other night with screams clenched in his throat and tears erupting from his eyes from his burning shoulder as if the bullet had entered his flesh once more. That was why he had that bloody limp in his leg even though both of his legs were perfectly fine. He was simply being, in one word:

Haunted.

That he could believe. He felt haunted by those images of his friends and comrades getting shot at, dying in front of him, the adrenaline rushing through him just to stay alive. All the screams around him and the casualties being laid out among him. It seemed like enough to drive any normal person mad. And yet, he felt as though he craved to feel that same rush, that same near-death experience as he'd had back in Afghanistan.

Oh, how he longed to find something to give him that same thrill one more.

OoOoOoO

"So, John Watson," Sherlock murmured to himself as he exited St. Bartholomew's hospital, his riding crop held his hand securely. "Army doctor, experienced soldier, and a potential flat mate . . ."

"Sherlock Holmes," John muttered as he walked the stairs up to his flat, cane held firmly in his hand. "Interesting fellow, don't know a thing about him, and I'm going to look at a flat with him . . ."

Sherlock got into a cab and looked out the window, the gears in his head turning and spinning.

John sat on his bed after researching his potential flat mate.

"Well," they murmured, "whatever happens . . . It'll certainly be interesting."

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**Please review and let me know what you think!**


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